Requiem
by Sylvyr Elf
Summary: Draco Malfoy is being released from Azkaban, causing a cry of outrage and a great deal of controversy in the wizarding world. How much has the world changed while Draco served his time, and how will being the first Deatheater ever released affect his inte
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One: Release

_War Criminal To Be Released: Corruption In The Bureau Of Criminal Correction?_

_Eleven years ago Draco Malfoy was convicted of the crimes of being a Deatheater (Stce: 10 yrs), breaking an entering (Stce: 5 yrs), and attempted murder (Stce: 10 yrs). For those of you who don't remember, the youngest son of the infamous Malfoy line, then sixteen, aided and abetted an attack on Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft And Wizardry, resulting in one of the most disheartening murders of the second war, that of Albus Dumbledore._

_Now, after only eleven years he is being released, without having served the full term of his sentence. Prime Minister Rufus Scrimgour has served us with a strict regime, making public the sentence terms of every crime, with none of the nonsense we suffered the first time around about being under an imperious curse, that left so many Deatheaters on the loose the first time. He stated, and rightfully so, that we simply couldn't afford the risk. And yet now, a known Deatheater, who never made a claim at having been put under the Imperious curse, is being released without having served the full term of his service._

_Lucius Malfoy, father of Draco Malfoy, also a convicted Deatheater currently serving his fifteen-year sentence, escaped justice after the first war by means of bribery and cries of imperious. It would seem that his son may have been allowed to follow in his footsteps._

_Some opponents of Scrimgour's policies would have us believe that Malfoy's youth at the time his crimes were committed should insulate him against the full severity of his term. I humbly submit that if as an innocent child he was willing to commit murder, how much worse must he be as a man? If we release this young killer today, who might we release tomorrow?_

_Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet._

Draco Malfoy knelt on the floor of his cell eating the last of his breakfast from the tray. He had pulled his dirty hair back and tied it with a torn piece of his prison robe. His skin was pallid from lack of sun, and the good looks he had once had were marred by sorrow and suffering.

Yet he was in far better shape than most of the prisoners here. Even in the presence of dementors he carried himself with a quiet dignity. Unlike so many, he had not fully lost his powers, although his captors were at a loss as to why.

Had he still been alive, Sirius Black could have told them. A strong thought, that was not happy, but still powerful, could not be stolen by the dementors. And Draco had one such thought. A thought with enough power that it kept him lucid, protected him from the insanity that the other inmates submitted themselves to. A thought that gave him a sense of self in the loss of all sense but dread.

_I deserve this, I did this to myself._

Most people would not have understood, certainly most would not have gained strength from it. He had stood on the astronomy tower at Hogwarts and pointed his wand at the most powerful man he knew. The man he had promised to kill. He had listened in disbelief as Albus Dumbledore offered to protect him. To take him away from the nightmare his life had become. His heart had soared for just one moment with hope; a hope that was dashed moments later as the body of his would be savior was thrown from the heights by a curse. Draco had been rushed away by his compatriots.

He had suffered horribly through the following night. Voldemort had been furious with him for his failure to deliver the killing blow. He had been forced to watch as his mother was debased, defiled, and tortured - a far more effective punishment than anything that could have been done to him physically. When he had looked into his mother's tear-streaked face, met her eyes that night, something had been born inside him.

He had managed to escape later that day. Injured and barely alive he'd found shelter in the States, biding his time and watching carefully what was happening in his country. Waited for a time when Voldemort was preparing to strike a crippling blow, and struck one of his own.

He had walked into the ministry of magic and turned himself in, naming a number of theretofore-unknown Deatheaters. One of whom had been in a position to strike at the Minister himself. He had known at the time that he was committing himself to Azkaban and a possible life sentence. He also knew, for the first time in his life, that he was doing the right thing.

There was a kind of strength in that he had never known before.

The door of his cell opened and one of his Illithins beckoned him. He was being released. Draco followed the Illithin down the hallway to where he would be processed out, careful not to step on it's dragging tentacle.

The Illithins were a strange type of creature, in their own way they were crueler than Dementors, they were devourers of thoughts and emotions. For the most part they were in Azkaban to keep the Dementors in check, for the Dementors feared them, but they were not much comfort to the prisoners.

Draco was led into a small room, where a squat witch with a face like a toad waited to process him out. He felt like he should remember her, but the presence of the Illithin made it hard to concentrate.

He paid little attention to the paperwork he was given to sign. Everything around him seemed gray and colorless. The woman took back the papers and stretched out her hand. Dutifully Draco held out his left hand palm up, revealing the Dark Mark on his left forearm, and beneath it his prison identification number. She took out her wand and touched the number, which vanished. He vaguely wished she could have removed the mark too, but knew it was impossible.

She dismissed him with a curt nod and waved him to a door on the other side of the room. He rose and realized with mild surprise that the Ilithin was not following. For the last eleven years he had been escorted everywhere by them when outside his cell. He wondered if it would feel strange now to walk without them.

He went down the hall into the prison's anteroom where a single guard sat behind a desk. Without looking at him the man turned and began to rummage in a drawer.

"It's Malfoy correct?"

Draco's voice sounded odd in his ears as he answered, "Yes."

He had had no one to speak to for years, the guards required only a nod or shake of the head, and drawing attention to himself by speaking when they did not need it had generally only led him to new levels of punishment.

His voice was deeper than he remembered, and loud.

"Malfoy, Malfoy, we have two on the roster, Draco or Lucius?"

"Draco," only two. He would have thought that with all the Deatheaters exposed that his mother would have also been captured. A cold thought wormed its way into his heart; perhaps she had not survived the last battle. Or worse, perhaps she had, only to have died in this horrible place after the war.

"Here we are," the man was holding out a bundle wrapped in heavy burlap and tied with string. "You're not to open that until you've reached the mainland. You understand?"

"Yes," somehow all of this seemed so surreal, as though he could awaken in his cell and find he had dreamed it all.

"Excuse me, but do you keep a list of prisoners who have died while here?"

"Yes, but it's classified. To get that information you have to go through ministry approved routes. It can't actually even be accessed from here. You'll have to go to the office in London."

"Thank you. Is there anything else I should do here?"

The man gave him a sadistic grin, "Not unless you want to volunteer for another ten years."

"I'll pass," Draco murmured as a shudder passed through him at the thought of even another day in this place.

"Though as much, go through those doors there and down to the docks."

Draco turned and went through the doors the man had pointed out and found himself on the landing of a set of wooden steps that led down. He descended, holding tightly to the bundle the man had given him, the texture of the burlap was alien against his hands after so many years of nothing but cotton. The stairs led to a tunnel cut through the rock base of the island, which eventually led out onto a rickety wooden dock that floated on the rough water. At the end of the dock was a small, dingy looking boat.

Draco looked around but no one was in sight.

"Hello?"

He stepped out, squinting at the sudden brightness, his eyes accustomed to the heavy gloom of his cell. Still no one appeared.

He made his way out onto the wobbly deck, which rocked with each wave that touched it. The boat was not secured by any visible means.

Very carefully Draco stepped down into it, with a lurch that almost knocked him from his feet it pushed away from the dock. As he steadied himself he realized it was heading out to sea and settled back to wait. Apparently there was no ferryman, just a ferryboat.

The time seemed to stretch interminably as he rode in the boat, unsure even of his destination. The sun soon became hot, and he wished heartily for a drink of water. It was the first thing he remembered really wanting in ages.

His mind began working over things, thinking clearly for the first time in ages, and he began to wonder. He knew the war was over, but he did not know how. He also knew that the Dark Mark had not faded when Voldemort had died, as it should have. And what had become of his mother, his friends, his lover?

The sun was drawing close to its zenith when the boat approached the shore. On the stretch of rocky beach there was a small untended shack. The boat stopped a few feet from shore and he was forced to wade the last few feet.

After exiting the water, he made his way to the shack, once within its shadow he knelt and opened his bundle. It took several attempts to untie the rough knot. Inside he found a simple robe, his personal effects, and his wand. Even after so long, the smooth wood felt comfortable and familiar in his hand.

He changed into the robes, leaving the old ones behind in the shack. He stood on the beach and looked around him.

He was free.


	2. The Return

In Wiltshire county, far from prying eyes, and safely protected by many layers of spells, there is a hidden lake. The lake, and the manor nestled safely on its shores, had been so well protected that it would be impossible to locate it on any map. To the muggles who sometimes visited the area it might as well not have existed. Once the manor had been stately and grand, the home of countless powerful wizards.

Now though the manor was falling into disrepair. The vast sprawling lawn and gardens were growing rampantly over the walks. Sickly looking crawling vines, some of which appeared to have teeth were overtaking the walls, in some places reaching to the roof. The walls themselves gave a sad report of the status of the house, the paint was peeling away, the wood weathered by wind; it seemed as though the spells, which had once preserved it, were giving way, now that the house was empty. And surely it must be empty for there were no signs of life, no lights in any windows, or smells of cooking from the kitchen. An unearthly calm lay over the area.

A calm which was shattered, briefly, by a loud popping sound and the sudden appearance of Draco Malfoy in the over grown gardens. He studied his childhood home with a feeling of great trepidation. Never had he imagined that his home, the place that had always been his sanctuary could ever be changed. And yet it had. Here it stood untended and wild, after only a few years it had fallen before the forces of time and nature.

As well it appeared that his mother was not here as he had hoped. Not that he had truly expected to find her here, unharmed and awaiting his return, but on some deep level, he had hoped. He made his way through the tangled lawn, twice having to jump to avoid a spray of needles fired at him by a twisler bush. Finally gaining the porch he had to duck under the vines of the snapping nosfer vine. Tendrils of the vine had snaked their way across the door and it took several tries before he remembered a spell that would work correctly to clear them.

The inside of the house was even more dismal than the outside. Dark and gray there were no lights, and the vines sprawling across the window kept the sunlight from entering.

Draco used a lumos spell and began to take stock of the manor. Inches of dust lay over everything. In the corner the planetary clock had stopped, without it's constant whirring tip sound the house seemed unusually empty. Bits of debris were scattered about across the floor, lending further to the desolation of the place that had once been so full of life. He toured the house, pausing for a moment in each room.

In each room he remembered what had been, even as he saw the desolation that had come.

He saw himself, sitting at the long table between his parents, laughing as his father railed at the house elf for dropping a dish, and flicking his peas at the miserable creature when his parents were not looking.

He saw the spider webs that draped profusely over the branches of the silver candlesticks sitting on the table.

"_Quit wasting your peas son."_ Those days had seemed so much simpler.

In his father's study he saw himself sitting cross-legged on the floor, working confidently on a new spell. His mother sat on a divan by the window, reading a book on carnivorous garden plants, while his father sat at the desk reading what the Prophet's follow up reports to the debacle at the World Quiditch Cup. His mother gave a sudden twinge and rubbed a spot on her arm with a gasp.

He saw the rows of books that lined the study, some of them ruined by rain that had leaked in through the broken windows, others weathered and worn by the wind and mists that had blown in.

"_Mother, are you alright?" _

"_Yes dear, just a mosquito bite. Why don't you go play in the garden?"_

"_But…"_

"_Do as your mother says," his father cut him off, before he had even finished his complaint. _

_He had risen sulkily and pulled the door closed shut behind him, but not all the way._

"_Lucius, that's the second time since the tournament. What do you think it means?_

"_I don't think it means anything Cissy, one of our old comrades has figured to have a joke on us. When I discover who, I'll think of a nasty curse and bounce it of their heads a few time, and that will be the end of it._

_Draco turned, deciding that perhaps he would rather pack his trunk for school, than go out into the garden; his mother's new plant had already tried to bite him twice._

Draco paused on the threshold of the drawing room. He could make out the faint line of the trap door in the floor. No he could not face this room, not yet.

_He knelt on the floor of the trap door and vowed…_

With a shudder he wrenched himself away. It was then, as he passed back through the entrance hall, that he noticed someone had covered the furniture with dustcovers. He smiled slightly, at the same time wondering who would have done such a thing.

He made his way up the stairs towards his own room. Everything was the way he had left it, although shabby from the dirt. He went to the wardrobe, hoping to find something more to his style of clothing than the ill-fitting robe provided at Azkaban, but glancing at the clothes inside, he realized that none of them would fit him anymore. He was broader of shoulder and across the hips than he had been, and taller. He had filled out; ironic as it seemed, he had _grown_, in Azkaban.

After a moments hesitation he crossed the hall to his parent's room. He would have to wear something of his fathers. The idea was foreign to him.

He had not been in his parents' room since he was a very young child, it was perhaps the one part of the house he seldom entered, or had cause to. Like the rest of the house it was dimly lit and filthy. He opened the wardrobe and was surprised when his mother stepped out.

She looked just as she had the day he had last seen her. In his shock he stumbled over the words of a greeting, but before he had managed to say anything a dark hand grabbed her from the depths of the wardrobe and pulled her back, while a knife appeared in the thing's other dark hand and slit her throat mercilessly, letting her body drop to the floor.

Draco dropped to his knees in horror, staring blankly as a crimson flow of blood poured from the deep gash, mixing with the dust on the floor to become an ugly red mud, as she tried to draw a deep gurgling breath.

As the mudded mess spread further towards him Draco's disjointed mind grasped at the scene. There were no footprints in the dust. She was dying, his mother was dying! Her blood was mixing with the dirt. Her blood was to precious to mix with common dirt. There should have been footprints. Why was he worrying about footprints when his mother was dying. How did the healing spell go, it sounded like a song? How did she get in there without leaving footprints?

Draco suddenly snapped the fragments together to form a solid conclusion. He uttered a single word in a broken whisper as he recognized the truth.

"Boggart."

He wondered vaguely how he was supposed to make something like this funny. He took a deep breath and tried to calm his swirling emotions. He pointed his wand at the boggart and uttered the spell, "Ridikkulus," wrapping an image into the spell. He had not been able to think of a way to make the current situation humorous, so he attempted to shift it altogether.

To his surprise it worked. The image of his dead mother was replaced by the image of Rufus Scrimgour broomsurfing in an old nightgown. The sight almost doubled him over with laughter. He laughed long after the boggart had vanished into a cloud of smoke.

"That nuthouse may have cracked me after all," he announced to the empty house when he finally managed to regain his composure. He rummaged in the wardrobe until he found a set of robes that was not too damaged by time and returned to his room, where he spread it out and used his wand to repair the places where it had frayed. It was likely to be out of style by now, but in all reality that mattered little. He went into his bathroom and used a scourgify spell to clean out his bath. He had to do it five times before the spell managed to lift away all the dirt. Pleased with the result he decided on a whim to clean the rest of the small room before he bathed.

Even with magic it was an hour before the room was finished to his satisfaction. It was with a sigh of relief and a feeling of accomplishment that he sank into the deep water of his bath. The bath could have passed for a small muggle swimming pool, and was set down in the tile. It filled magically with hot water and Draco could choose from one of the five taps which kind of foam he liked. After he had become a prefect he had sometimes wondered if his bathroom had not been modeled after the prefects bathroom at Hogwarts.

The warm water felt wonderful, the first true bath he had had since his incarceration, and he allowed the water to wash away years of accumulated dirt. It was perhaps the most refreshing thing he had experienced in his entire life. He used the foam to wash his hair, scrubbing and rinsing repeatedly until he felt clean. He stepped out of the bath feeling as though he were clean for the first time in his life.

He wrapped a fluffy towel around him and went over to the counter and the wide mirror, studying himself. Noting all the changes that had taken place in him over the years. His body was still lean and small, but he had filled out and no longer looked like a boy. His hair had grown unchecked in Azkaban, reaching nearly to his knees. A pale thin scar ran the length of his face, down his chin and across his chest. The remnant of a fight that had taken place in another bathroom. The wounds had been treated immediately and had healed so faintly that they almost could not be seen. Their brethren had not.

He swept aside his long hair as he turned, looking over his shoulder and examining the marks across his back. Wide ugly marks of lighter skin, raised slightly above the rest marked his back in a crossing pattern. It seemed a miracle that he had not died from the spell. How many times had he been hit, three, four, before he was left for dead? He could not remember for sure.

He let his hair fall back and grimaced at it. In addition to being extraordinarily long it was rough and tangled. He picked his wand up from the counter and studied his unruly hair. He intended to cut it, but perhaps not as short as he had worn it before. After several moments of thought he mouthed a spell and several inches of hair fell to the floor, as if shorn by scissors. He repeated the process until all the roughness and split ends were gone and what remained were long smooth tresses. He was surprised to find that it still reached close to his waist. He studied it indecisively for several moments and decided he liked it.

He dressed in his father's revamped robes, and set about putting his room in proper order. He used his wand to gather all the dust from the room, and deposit it on the dustcover placed over his bed. He pulled the edges up and sealed them, trapping the dirt inside. He used a send spell to banish it to the rubbish heap outside.

It took another hour of spell work to scrub out the ingrained dirt and banish it as well. He was beginning to wish devoutly that he had a house elf to help him, but he doubted seriously that he would be able to acquire one. After a third hour of cleaning Draco was beginning to feel as though his room were appropriately his again, and paused to find something to eat. It was approaching dusk.

There was nothing at all edible in the kitchen. He scoured it twice before giving up. He was beginning to wonder if he would need to apparate to a wizarding establishment for supper, but he had no gold with him which would make that difficult, when he remembered that there were fruit trees in the back garden.

The back garden was as unruly as the rest, and the trees were growing somewhat wild, but he managed to find a few small apples and a peach. Not usually the best repast, but definitely better than anything he had eaten in years.

Sated and tired, the last thought on his mind as he collapsed to sleep on his magically cleaned sheets, was that he was home.


	3. Reunion

Reunion

Draco's raised his hand to his face and wearily rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. The dim light in the archive room and the tiny script combined to give him a headache. He was having a difficult time resisting the urge to slam the record book shut in his irritation.

When he had first arrived in London he had hoped that he could gain access to Azkaban's record books and discover if his mother had been incarcerated. He had gone directly to the Ministries's main office. He had spent the rest of the day, being sent from one office to another to find the one that could actually access the records he needed. He had finally been directed to an office in Diagon Alley that he was assured was the proper one. By the time he arrived they were closed for the day. Disappointed he returned home, that had been Friday, the office was closed for the weekend. Monday morning he arrived at the office on Diagon first thing, only to discover that he did not have the required authorization to view their records. It took another three days to secure that. He was finally directed to the vaults where the records were kept. In the Ministry's main office.

The record books contained a list of all the prisoners who had died during incarceration at Azkaban. There were a lot. Roughly three books per year, filled with tiny hard to read script. He had started with the year he had been interred. After two days of concerted effort he still had three years left to get through. So far there had been no Malfoys on the list, but he had wasted the better part of a week searching. The office would close in fifteen minutes for the weekend.

He wished there was a quicker way to handle his search. There were some things that no amount of magic made any easier.

He set the book aside, marking the page number in his head so he could pick up in the same place on Monday. He rose and strode towards the exit, bidding goodnight to the desk clerk, a young woman with dreamy eyes and wild hair.

"Goodbye Mr. Malfoy, will we see you on Monday?"

"I suspect you will," he replied with a sigh. He was not used to being addressed as Mr. Malfoy. It was taking some time to adjust.

Most of the ministry officials had looked down their noses at him, but had at least treated him fairly. The rest of the wizarding world was not so forgiving. The current style of robes left the forearms exposed. A good number of establishments refused him service after seeing the mark on his arm. He really could not blame them. He turned in his visitors badge at the front desk and apparated to Diagon Alley.

He popped into place outside of Madame Malkin's Robe shop and went inside to collect the robes he had ordered from her. He had toyed with the idea of having them cut with longer sleeves to conceal the Dark Mark, but in the end had decided against it. Not for a fickle reason like fashion, or the way others would stare, but because he felt that this too was part of his punishment for his crimes.

While Madame Malkin did not outright refuse him service like many others she did not seem terribly happy to have his business. He gathered his robes quickly and left, then grabbed dinner to go from a shop on Nocturne.

He had made a great deal of progress at cleaning the manor. He had had a weekend and several evenings to work on it, and nothing else to occupy his time. He worked every night until he was exhausted, then collapsed into a sleep so deep that he seldom managed to dream. It was just as well, he only ever had nightmares anymore. He had finished the foyer the previous evening and felt he could no longer put off the drawing room. He found him selfdreading it more and more.

He ate slowly and found himself making excuses not to work on it. Finally he decided to take the night off and just chill. He read one of the few books from the study that he had been able to recover from the mess.

_His mother's golden hair was stained scarlet where it mixed with her blood on the floor. Her robe had been torn to shreds and lay beneath her in tattered rags. He wanted to turn his head or run to her, but his aunt's spell held him firmly in place. He could not even cry out to her, but the spell could not stop the tears from rolling down his face. She had stopped screaming now, she simply lay there with a blank expression on her face. _

_"This is your punishment. You should never have failed our great maser," Bellatrix purred into his ear, in her most condescending voice, as she ran her fingers through his hair. It was almost a caress. He was certain now that she was insane. _

_A man with blonde hair down to his waist stepped out of the circle and descended on Narcissa, she did not struggle when he forced her legs apart. She gave a tiny cry as he slammed himself into her, but otherwise made no objection. She had suffered so much pain that she was almost indifferent to it._

_Lord Voldemort lounged in an easy chair, watching with a twisted smile, shifting his attention between Draco and Narcissa, as though not wishing to miss a moment of the torment the two were going through. Professor Snape stood next to him, watching with an indifferent expression as his best friend's wife was raped._

_Draco could not remember the name of the blonde man, but the animalistic snarl on his face as he struck the unresisting woman in the face, he knew he would never forget. He continued to fuck Draco's mother like a rutting animal. Draco had lost all sense of time, just as he had lost count of how many men. The blonde satisfied himself and rose, returning to his place in the circle._

_"There now, they've tamed all the fight out of her. Take her as you please," Voldemort said, pushing Snape forward. Draco's anguished cry never left his throat. Severus descended slowly to Narcissa, his face unreadable. He knelt over her, his hands running over her in an almost gentle caress._

_"Severus," she whispered, "Severus, please no…"_

_An expression flashed across his face so fast Draco was not certain he had seen it. Regret…sorrow. Maybe he imagined it because he wanted to believe that this man who had been their friend still cared for them. Snape leaned over her, his hands playing over her breasts before he lowered his face and whispered in her ear. She stiffened visibly, and turned her face away. He bit viciously into her ear, causing her to spasm in pain. He raised his face to Draco, his expression was hard and captivated Draco's attention as he forced himself into her…_

Draco woke with fresh tears running down his face. At least in Azkaban the Illithins had dulled the pain. The newly restored planetary clock chimed one in the morning. The book dropped from Draco's lap as he sat up and buried his face in his hands, broken sobs shaking his body. He had been helpless to save her, and now he could only fumble blindly about in his search for her. How many other people's lives had been destroyed because of him?

Draco lost track of how long he sat there mourning, but at some point he got up and roamed through the house, taking stock of the restoration he had done. Mostly he looked without seeing. Trying to work his grief stricken mind into a semblance of order again. Eventually he found himself at the door of the drawing room, and knew he could put it off no longer.

He stepped over the threshold and raised his wand, attacking the dirt in the room viciously, as if in cleansing it he could cleanse the memories from his mind. They came slowly at first, then stronger, as he slipped into a rhythm spell to spell restoring the room as it had been before.

_Draco paced restlessly back and forth over the drawing room floor, angrier perhaps than he had ever been. His father was in Azkaban because of stupid Harry Potter._

"_God, I wish there was something I could do. I swear I'll get revenge on that little ponce somehow."_

"_Draco, watch your language," his mother warned. "And for God's sake be more careful what you say. Don't you understand? The Dark Lord is coming here. You must watch yourself, please."_

_Draco rounded on her, "Father was following his orders, he should do something."_

"_Draco, your father failed," Narcissa rose from her seat and crossed the room to put a hand on his shoulder. Leaning close she whispered in his ear, "If he were free, the Dark Lord might punish him even more severely than what he suffers in Azkaban. As it is we shall be fortunate if his displeasure does not fall on us. For our safety you must guard your tongue and curb your anger. Remember that we serve him, not he us."_

_Draco stopped ranting and thought hard about what his mother was telling him. He had always thought that the Dark Lord would only hurt good wizards. It had never occurred to him that he would be just as vicious or more so with his own followers._

"_But we have not failed."_

"_It may not matter son."_

"_Mother-" he never finished the sentence for at that moment there was the tramp of feet at the door and Aunt Bellatrix opened the door and led in several Deatheaters and the Dark Lord himself._

_It was the first time Draco had ever been in the presence of the Dark Lord, and he stood tensely next to his mother, suddenly more nervous than he had thought he would be._

"_Welcome Dark One to our humble home…" his mother started, stepping forward and bowing from the waist humbly._

"_Silence woman!" the Dark Lord commanded striding across the threshold. "Your family has not served me well."_

_His mother straightened and stepped back so that she was next to him, but slightly forward. A tremor sped through her body. For the first time in his life his mother seemed small, and he felt the urge to step forward and place himself in front of her, but he stayed where she had bid him stay. Fear was beginning to etch itself deeply into his being._

"_Your husband has failed me, not once but twice," the Dark Lord paced across the room as he spoke, circling around them, his red snake like eyes searing into them. Draco tried to stand tall and not look as afraid as he felt. "Both tasks were of phenomenal importance. It leads me to question the loyalty of your family."_

_He lowered his wand slowly towards Narcissa._

"_No!" Draco stepped in front of his mother, pushing her behind him. _

"_Draco!" his mother grabbed his shoulder and tried to pull him back but he stood his ground._

"_No," he said again, more calmly now, partly to calm his mother, partly to reassure himself, but mostly to assure the Dark Lord. "We are loyal."_

"_Are you now," the Dark Lord asked, standing over them, his pale lips pulled up in a victorious smile._

"_Father's failures are his own. We bore no part in them."_

"_Did you not, his family, his offspring, those he trusted most?"_

"_They were his own," Draco insisted._

_The Dark Lord reached out and grasped his left hand in an iron grip and baring his forearm._

"_Bah, you say you are loyal, yet you don't even bear a mark."_

"_I have never been offered the opportunity to swear my loyalty."_

"_And if I took your oath, would you be a better servant than your father?" the Dark Lord asked with a wicked grin._

"_Draco," his mother whispered, trembling against him._

_He shrugged her off, "Yes," her replied squaring his shoulders. "Yes, I would."_

"_Then I shall allow you to give your oath. But be forewarned, failure will not be tolerated."_

_Before Draco could move he whipped his wand out and a spell flashed from it and hit his mother. She dropped to the floor, writhing in pain._

"_No!" he knelt next to her, holding her close until her convulsions stopped._

"_Don't fail. Now come."_

_Draco followed his instructions, kneeling on the floor, the hasp of the trap door digging into his knee through the carpet, and swore the oath of service to the Dark Lord. He too writhed on the floor in pain, as the Dark Mark was placed on his skin, the spell burning slowly into the flesh of his arm._

It was the first night of a nightmare that lasted over a year, ending on the night that Dumbledore was murdered.

Draco sat wearily on the trapdoor, and breathed a sigh of relief. It was done.

He tried to gather his thoughts, to organize what he needed to do next, but nothing came to him.

A sudden knock at the door caused him to jump. He brushed a stray strand of hair back into place as he went to answer it. Who in the world would be on his doorstep?

He opened the door to a complete stranger. The woman on his doorstep looked several years older than him, with wide set violet eyes and long hair the color of honey.

"Can I help you?"

She smiled and held out a hand to him, "I don't think we've ever been introduced, my name is Nymphadora Lupis, but please, call me Tonks, it's my maiden name and everyone does. Anyway, I know we never met, but we're cousins."

"Cousins?"

"Yeah, hey can I come in, this vine keeps trying to eat my purse!"

"Uh, yeah," he stepped back and let her in.

"Oh, wow, you've really cleaned up the place. My husband and I came in and covered everything up, when well, everything happened. And I came to check on things once in a while, but you know, things were still getting really messy."

"Ok, how am I related to you? And what happened?"

"Ok, well, my mom and your mom are sisters right. Only my mom up and decides to marry a muggle and well you know."

"She got ostracized."

"Yep, blown off all the family bloodlines and everything."

"Sorry."

"Ah, it never bothered me much, but that's how come we never met. I was several years ahead of you in school, and I never got to come to family stuff."

Draco noticed that once inside her hair seemed darker, maybe red.

"Anyway, I heard about your release and I figured there were some things you might need to know."

"Do you know where my mother is?"

"Yes," there was hesitance in her voice. "Yes, that's part of it."

"Is she alright, she's not dead?"

"No, Draco, she's not dead, but she isn't well either."

"Well, where is she?"

"She's been staying with my husband and I. This is the first time I've had a chance to come see you, and there's just too much to tell in a letter. After you, turned yourself in, Voldemort took out his anger on her. Snape tried to protect her, but he couldn't do much without compromising his position, and we know the price he paid to get there. He kept them from killing her, but she was tortured so much that well…"

"She's brain dead."

"Maybe, the healers say there's a chance she'll recover, and sometimes she has days where she seems almost like she knows who she is, and then she has real bad days. Maybe seeing you will help, I don't know. Normally, the healers would have kept her in the hospital, but with her being a Death Eater and all, we were not sure she would be cared for properly in the long term, so my husband and I brought her to live with us."

"Thank you."

"It's no problem."

"My family never would have done something like that for yours in the old days. I wish I could say we would, but we both know it's a lie. I can compensate you for finances while you cared for her if you need them."

"Thanks, but money isn't really a problem right now. I'm an auror you know, it pays pretty well."

Draco jumped, startled.

"I haven't met an auror since my release who hasn't watched me as if expecting me to try resurrecting the Dark Lord right under their noses. Not that I would," he added quickly, shuddering at the thought.

"Well, I figure everybody deserves a second chance, and you were just a kid. Besides, Harry figures you were forced into it to protect your mum, so I'm not too worried."

"Potter!"

"Yeah, he even testified at your trial. It's part of why the Scrimgour honored his deal with you. Otherwise you'd have been sentenced to a full term."

"I never knew. But what could Potter have possibly said, we were enemies?"

"He was on the tower that night."

"He was, oh."

"What about Snape? I know enough to know that he's considered a war hero now, but I don't know how on earth. Dumbledore thought he was a spy, but he killed Dumbledore!"

"He was a spy. Dumbledore was smart Draco, whatever else anyone can say, he was a genius, and mad to boot. He knew that he was an obstacle to Voldemort, as long as he was alive Voldemort would attack him, and that would leave his students vulnerable. He also knew that for Harry to have a chance of success, he would need an ally close to Voldemort. The only way to get a spy that close to him would be for the spy to do something drastically horrendous. He called it hitting two birds with one stone.

"Your mother was not the only person who had Snape under and Unbreakable Vow. He had also vowed to Dumbledore that if Deatheaters ever made it into the school, he would finish Dumbledore and get close to Voldemort."

"Huh, sounds like something he'd come up with."

"When the time came, Snape was able to let Harry and his army get within range of Voldemort, which gave them time to strike the final blow.

"He still would have been executed as a war criminal, because he wasn't going to tell anyone, he hadn't wanted to kill Dumbledore you know. He thought there was no way Deatheaters could ever get into Hogwarts.

"But Dumbledore had left his memories of the vow in the hands of an official, who turned it up in the trial. He was pardoned."

"That sounds like exactly the sort of thing my dad hated about Dumbledore. So what is Snape up to these days."

"He tries to stay out of the public eye as much as possible. He and Harry don't get along, despite it being Dumbledore's will and all, Harry will never be able to fully forgive him for what he did. And Snape can't really forgive himself either, so he just tries to stay out of things. Actually, he's been paying for a lot of the care your mother needs too."

"I'm not sure if that surprises me or not."

"Did you know?"

"All of that, no. But looking back now, I think he may have helped me escape."

They sat in silence for a while.

"Are you ready to see your mom?"

"Yeah."

They left the house together and aparated to Tonks house. He was startled to learn that her husband was his old professor, who had been fired for being a werewolf. Looking at their modest but nice home, he guessed that he no longer suffered the same prejudices.

They exchanged greetings and Tonks led him to a back room where his mother stayed. She let him in, and stepped respectfully back into the hall.

She was as beautiful as he remembered, but she did not recognize him when she looked at him.

She sat on the bed dressed in elegant blue robes that brought out the color in her eyes. She looked up as he entered, and for a moment his heart fluttered with hope that she might know him, but then she turned away and stared out at the sunfilled garden outside.

"Mother," he crossed the room and knelt in front of her, taking her hand in his. "Mother, Mother it's Draco. I've come home Mother."

She continued to stare out the window.

He kissed her hand gently and found that hot tears were trickling down his cheek. She should not have to be like this. She who had always been so proud and noble, first always in the defense of her family. His mother had always been vivacious and full of life, and now she seemed so broken.

He stayed there in her room for a long time, kneeling in front of her and holding her hand, hot tears pouring down his cheeks at the injustice of it all. He hoped someday he could set things right.

Absently she raised her hand and stroked his hair, the same way she had done when he was a child. He looked up to meet her eyes, but her stare was still vacant, her eyes fixed on the window, and the garden beyond.


End file.
